Two Guys and a Girl
by Jizzles
Summary: When Harry Ron and Hermione return to school from a grueling summer break feelings for each other are changed as they realize that they may have feelings for one another {Not a slash fic.}
1. Default Chapter

Note:This is just a small experiment. This fic. is based on the Trio theory which I thoroughly support after watching the third movie {The trio theory is the triangle with harry ron and hermione as the victims..} I hope you enjoy. Also if you could R&R i'd really appreciate it!  
  
Other Note: DO NOT MAIL ME AT THE DEFAULT ADDRESS. I do welcome mails from anyone but if you choose to do so my new mail is projectdragonlinkinpark.com  
  
He was looking down at the ground, his thoughts soaring far higher than he was, into the cloud cover mere inches from his head. This had to be a dream. An impossible intangible dream that snared the senses into believing things that weren't. He wasn't flying. He wasn't free. He willed himself to close these imaginary eyes of his, disappearing from this sub-reality and appearing back into his own little piece of hell, gazing around the small bedroom the lay in front of him, wincing as his ears tuned into the high pitched screams of Aunt Petunia willing him to come cook breakfast. Another day in the life of Harry.  
  
He wondered as he ambled down the stairs, what would his friends think of him now? Now that he was home. No longer was Harry a 'Hero' who had overcome Voldemort more times than need be mentioned. No longer was he 'The Boy Who Lived'. That was the problem. He was no one. Just a phantasm of emotions, yet these emotions weren't real either, just his imagination getting the best of him.  
  
The Dursleys saw him as a disposable slave and he was constantly walking on eggshells among them, wondering if today would be the day he would have the invitation to leave this life forever. Just leave, blend into the shadows and be one with them. No longer a person as he was forced to be now. What if he were dead. What if....  
  
Ron had awoken early this morning, not unnatural now-a-days. Stupid teen hormones. He'd been having a wonderful dream too. He was flying around the school grounds on a Firebolt, a Golden Snitch clasped between his fingers, the crouds of people once seated in the Quidditch stands flooding onto the field to congradulate him. Wonderful-but still yet impossible. A sigh escaped his lips as he sat up in bed, blinking back the sleep that had collected in his eyes. Absently he flattened his hair onto his pale fore- head. He'd need a haircut soon. Great.  
  
Making his way downstairs a few moments later he peeped into the kitchen, coming face to face with his mothers back and retreating quickly back to his room. Not in the best mood to deal with her. Yet again stupid teen hormones.  
  
Once back in his room he settled at his desk, absently twirling his quill around his fingers before realizing he hadn't heard from his friends. Harry and Hermione had usually written him within a few days of the end of term- but now it was two weeks before a new term and he hadn't heard from either of them, at all.  
  
Withdrawing a sheet of parchment from one of the drawers he settled down to write Harry first. A guy thing. Sucking on the tip of his quill he wondered what he could possibly write. Indeed his summer had been uneventful, consisting of the usual visits from his brother and demands of his mother and father. He wasn't exactly sure Harry would want to hear about this but he needed someone to rant to.  
  
However, before he could begin writing he felt a small tingling sensation come over his body, engulfing him with a warm fuzzy feeling before he found himself staring up at the silouette of his desk, looming precariously above him. He opened his mouth to scream but the only thing that emanated from his mouth was a tiny squeak.  
  
Then, with just the blink of an eye he was returned to Ron again. A very fearful version of himself but Ron none-the-less. He glanced frantically around, discovering a small abundance of feathers collecting at his feet.'Dammit you two...'he muttered under his breath. Fred and George had obviously perfected the art of converting the magic of Canary Creams into inanimate objects. Wonderful.  
  
With a final glance of his narrowed eyes he reluctantly relaxed and settled down to continue his writings... 


	2. Hermione

Note: This is a bit of an intense chapter. Yes, Hermione has turned into a self-mutilator. No, this writing is not from experience, simply a vent for pent up emotions so deal with it. As you can tell it has been a bad day.  
  
Hell hath no fury than a women pushed to the end of her rope.  
  
I don't want to loose my place in line.  
I've been here too long and i've spent too much time  
So now I want to loose my place in life  
  
Something missing, left behind  
Searching circles everytime I try.  
  
Hermione sat in the sill of her window, watching the early morning traffic  
that collected on the streets below. She'd been forced to do this alot lately. Her parents had been up to their usual fighting so she decided it  
best to just stay out of the way and become somewhat of a recluse.  
  
She hadn't heard from Harry or Ron lately, and this saddened her emensly. She'd always used those two as her rock. A staff to lean on in the hardest times of her life. But they weren't here now. No one was here except for  
the numb and dull silence her mind brought her.  
  
Her parents cared no more for her than they did themselves, and she suspected her mother had turned to drinking, and her father to other women. This was probably enough to have thrown her into the confines of depression  
she'd suffered from lately.  
  
She had to escape.  
  
Sure she had considered suicide, and for a while it had seemed a wonderful  
idea. Certainly hell was better than that of which she was living  
presently. At the last moment, however, the blunt blade of the razor balanced precariously over her pale wrist, she'd chickened out and simply  
cut a small line in the thin skin of her upper arm. It made her feel  
better.  
  
With this thought in mind she crossed the room, sliding the drawer of her bedside table open and withdrawing that jagged weapon of choice. She ran her fingers experimentally over the blade. Sharp enough. Sharp enough for  
pain relief, for escape, for liberation, freedom.  
  
With this blade she felt empowered. She was in control. No one could hurt her with this piece of metal in her hand. She was calling all the shots.  
  
Slowly she poised the razor over her arm, choosing an inconspicuous place  
that she'd not yet cut, holding it expertly now between her fingers and  
pressing it slowly into her soft flesh, rewarded with a small spurt of blood which presently turned into torrents, snaking down her arm, dripping  
down to the carpet. She'd cut deep this time. Too deep.  
  
Blood wasn't the only liquid that fell at this point. Tears dripped down Hermiones cheeks as the reality of her disease crashed down upon her. This wasn't normal for anyone. Not even someone suffering as she was. She would  
die here. She knew it. There was nothing she could do...  
  
Pain flooded her mind, blinding, white hot pain with which no pill could cure. Curses sounded from her lips, venomous words directed to her bleeding arm. She tried to grasp her thoughts but nothing would hold, nothing except for the pain, and a crushing knowledge that her consciousness was fading.  
  
She felt her fingers drop the blade, felt her thoughts cease completely, her body falling limply to the floor, blood defiantly dripping silently on the stained carpet, leaving Hermione in a deep pool of her own pain, yet  
her eyes were shut to all this. Shut perhaps forever. 


End file.
